


If We Keep Looking Backwards It'll Break Our Necks

by narrow_staircases



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Falling Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrow_staircases/pseuds/narrow_staircases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is falling, and it's not what any of them expected.</p>
<p>Or, that time when Cas got really concerned about washing machines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Keep Looking Backwards It'll Break Our Necks

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know where this came from, but it's the only productive thing I did today, so . . . ?
> 
> Title is from the song "Milk Carton Kid" by, uh, The Milk Carton Kids.

They are  _ never _ fucking doing this again, Dean thinks, scraping gum off the sole of his boot for what has to be the fifth time this afternoon. One hundred percent, swear-on-a-shit-load-of-Bibles  _ never. _

“I don’t do major metropolitan areas,” he’d growled at Cas that morning, hands tight on the steering wheel, resolutely refusing to change lanes and merge left for downtown. 

“The population is barely one million people, Dean.”

“Yeah, well that’s about one million too many. They don’t keep this fucking thing anywhere else?”

“It’s a rare ninth-century manuscript—“

“—that we don’t even need for anything, you just want to get your nerd fix. Can’t you drag Sam along with you instead?”  _ Not, why don’t you flap over there on your own, because these days… _

“I just thought since it’s on the way now…”

“Fine.” Did Sam coach him on the puppy-dog eyes? “But only because I’m in a good mood, and only this once, and I swear if you tell my brother he is never going to let me hear the end of it, so—“

“You need to take this exit, Dean.”

“Jesus, I know! I’m doing it, okay?”

“Sorry. And thank you.”

Yeah, Sam definitely coached him.

And he was right about everything, there are way too many people and it’s impossible to find a parking space for the Impala and he nearly turns the wrong way on a one-way street  _ three times. _ Not to mention the gum. And the smell of garbage. All so that Cas can nerd out over some ancient (and, almost certainly, totally inaccurate) ramblings and drawings of angelic visitations. Why the dude has to read about it when he was  _ there for it _ , Dean doesn’t know. 

Why he ever agreed to this in the first place, he also doesn’t know, unless it has something to do with the way Cas’s eyes had lit up when he talked about the unbelievably high level of preservation of this document ( _ Dean, the colors have barely faded at all, and there’s incredible gilded detail on the frontplates) _ , or the fact that he’d shivered this morning in the cool October air, or the way he closes his eyes and almost hums when he takes a sip of coffee (two cream, no sugar), or more generally because he’s Falling in the most unpredictable and  _ completely fucking unfair _ way possible and Dean just doesn’t have it in himself to refuse the soon-to-be-ex-angel anything.

It started about a month ago with Cas forgetting the word  _ toast _ . Butterknife in hand, staring at the nearly-burnt bread on his plate as if it had grown tiny legs and was preparing to crawl away. Dean had tried to laugh it off ( _ it’s called a brain fart, Cas, don’t sweat it _ ), but Cas had quietly announced that he was no longer interested in eating and walked out of the kitchen. A couple of days later it was  _ remote control _ and then order of the days of the week and then it was Cas sitting unblinking on the couch for ninety-four seconds while Dean yelled his name and waved his hand in front of his face. Sam called it a catatonic episode, Dean insisted that it needed to never fucking happen again, and Cas quietly informed them that, as his Grace was beginning to fade, it would probably begin occurring more and more frequently.

It changed from week to week. Sometimes there were no episodes, other days it would be two or three, and always getting longer. Cas started sleepwalking—or, whatever the equivalent would be for someone who doesn’t sleep. He’d end up in the bathroom or the library with no recollection of how he got there. The catatonic states left him confused and disoriented, baffled by zippers and Druidic spell books alike. And then the next day: as if nothing happened, carrying on heated debates with Sam over the appropriate syntax and declension in some Enochian phrase. Unpredictable.

On October 3rd Cas had stared blankly into his eyes and asked Dean what his name was. Dean stuttered his response, left the room, and promptly threw up in the kitchen sink.

Sam left a twenty-one page print-out entitled  _ Caring for a Loved One With Dementia _ on the bedside table in his room, and Dean shoved the whole thing in the trash, and they never talked about it.

Sam also insisted that this should put a hard and fast moratorium on Cas doing any more hunting. Cas, predictably, protested, losing his temper and practically screaming at Sam that he wasn’t going to just sit around like a useless child for the rest of his existence, and Dean was— _ is _ —so anxious to just act like everything’s totally fine that he took Cas’s side, and the two of them drove east to investigate a string of disappearances in southern New York.

And then Cas got an itch for ancient manuscripts, so now Dean’s standing on a busy street corner in a crowded city so he can satisfy the nerdy-ass whims of his  _ going—going—gone _ best friend. Cas is back at the library, still pouring over aging velum, but the rare books reading room has a super strict no-food-or-drinks policy, and Dean’s practically falling asleep standing up. There’s a Tim Horton’s across the street on the first floor of the public library, and when the crosswalk changes he lets the stream of pedestrians carry him across the street.

The line at the Tim Horton’s is long; he apparently hit the early-afternoon-coffee-hour rush. When he finally makes it to the counter, he orders a large black coffee and a couple doughnuts, because they’re two for one and he knows Cas likes the ones with custard filling.

His phone rings while the kid is getting his coffee, and he answers without thinking. “Yeah, Sam, I know we’re not back yet, we got a late start, okay?”

“ _ Dean?” _

“Cas? Hey, I thought the lady said no cell phones allowed.”

“ _ What lady? _ ”

“Uh, the lady at the library. Long hair, purple sweater?”

“ _ Am I supposed to be at a library? _ ”

_ Fuck _ . He’s out the door, the kid behind the counter yelling at him as he makes his exit. “Cas, where are you?”

“ _ I don’t know. _ ” 

There’s a tremor in his voice, and it’s fucking surreal and  _ terrifying _ that this is what breaks him in the end, not archangels or purgatory or the goddamn apocalypse, but  _ this. _

“ Cas, it’s okay. Are you outside, inside?”

“ _ Inside. _ ”

“Okay, good. Library? Books, computers—“

“ _ There are several washing machines. _ ”

Dean spins on his heel, scanning the buildings. Everything looks like an office or parking garage. “Uh, like a laundromat?” Wait, no, that’s a Hyatt—hotel laundry room?

“ _ There are also refrigerators. Nine of them, but I don’t believe they are working.” _

Jesus, he was gone for three minutes.  _ Three minutes _ . There’s nothing around here that’s going to match the admittedly bizarre description Cas is giving him. Fear settles tight in his gut as the answer hits him—Cas could be anywhere,  _ literally _ anywhere, because apparently he’s losing his ability to identify breakfast foods, but his wings still work just fine.

They’d never even considered it, just assumed that fading Grace also meant a loss of angelic powers, but apparently not only can Cas sleepwalk, he can sleep-teleport.

_ Jesus Christ _ . “Okay, Cas, I’m gonna come get you. Can you walk outside, see if there are any street signs?” He sprints back to the library, the phone plastered to his ear like maybe the extra half-a-centimeter of proximity will bring Cas closer.

“ _ Monroe and… Franklin. The crosswalk just came on.” _

“Okay, Cas, don’t go anywhere, got it? Just hang tight.” He pushes through the automatic doors and heads straight for the information desk. “What’s on Monroe and Franklin?” he barks at the librarian.  _ Please let those be roads in this city. _

The librarian scowls at him and motions to the cellphone. “Sir, I need you to be more quiet—“

“It’s an emergency,” he growls, and if he was carrying a gun he would pull it on her.

“All the same, this is a library, and I’ll ask you to keep your voice down.”

“Lady, please, will you just tell me what’s at that intersection?” 

Her lips fold into a tight line, but she brings up a search window on her computer anyway. Dean paces while he waits, holding his breath— _ god if there’s nothing there what the hell is he going to do— _

“There’s a Vietnamese restaurant, a bank, a Rent-a-Center—“

“That’s it.” The relief is fucking euphoric. “Cas? You still there, Cas?”

“ _ Yes? _ ”

“Okay, hang on.” He smiles weakly at the librarian, whose glare is deepening. “Can you give me directions? My, uh, kid got lost.” The lie feels ugly and leaden in his belly, frighteningly closer to the truth than  _ omniscient angelic friend _ is be these days.

It’s worth it, though, because her stern expression softens perceptibly and she pulls out a map of the city and starts highlighting roads. Dean snatches the paper out from under her hands and calls a belated thank you over his shoulder as he rushes back out to the street. “Hey Cas, I’m on my way. Keep talking to me, okay?”

It’s the longest drive of his life, every red light like a year under Alistair’s knife. Cas’s voice on the other end of the line is the only thing keeping him grounded, holding back the swirling fear:  _ what if it happens again before I get there? _

“ _ I don’t understand the concept, _ ” Cas is saying. “ _ If a washing machine costs twenty-seven-ninety-nine a week to rent, how is that a sensible financial investment? _ ”

“Uh, ‘cause it’s cheaper than buying it?”

“ _ But over multiple weeks, the renting cost will accumulate and exceed the price of owning one’s own machine. Oh. One might not have the money up front, on a limited income. I see. _ ”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it.  _ Asshole! _ ” He lays on the horn as a white Silverado cuts him off. “Sorry Cas, not you.”

“ _ Dean, are you driving? It’s against the law to operate a cell phone while driving, unless you have a hands-free headset.” _

“You would fucking remember that.”

“ _ Did you purchase a hands-free headset? _ ”

“No. Don’t hang up the phone, Cas, I’m like two minutes away.”

“ _ Dean, using a laundromat will always be the better financial option. I don’t see the need for this establishment.” _

“Okay, well I promise to never rent a washing machine.”

“ _ Thank you. _ ”

He rounds the corner, and there’s Cas, his arms folded, standing on the sidewalk under the bright yellow and blue Rent-a-Center sign, studying the advertisements plastered on the plate-glass windows. Dean’s so grateful he could cry. He steers the Impala into a five-minute zone by the curb, and his boots hit the pavement even before he kills the engine. “Cas!”

Cas turns, a puzzled crinkle between his eyebrows. “A refrigerator might be an acceptable investment, Dean, although I haven’t factored in the increase to the electrical bill yet—“

Dean catches him and folds him into a rough hug. “We’ve already got a fridge, Cas,” he says once he can trust himself to speak again.

“Oh.” 

Cas’s voice is close to his ear, his breath damp against his neck. Dean shivers and grips him tighter. “Don’t fucking  _ do _ that again, okay?”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” There’s a question in his voice, and Dean pulls back to study his face carefully. Something hazy is dancing behind Cas’s blue eyes, as if he can’t quite bring the world around him into focus.

He’ll come back, eventually. Dean has to believe that he’ll find his way back. “It’s okay, Cas. Let’s get in the car, huh?”

They drive out of town slowly, Dean’s attention split between the traffic and Cas in the passenger’s seat. Cas is silent the whole ride until they hit the suburbs, when he suddenly starts to shake: fine, barely perceptible tremors that build slowly until his teeth are chattering and his elbow rattles against the side door.

“Hey, hey, hey—Cas? Cas, it’s okay, I’m gonna pull over, alright?” Dean fits his hand against the back of Cas’s neck and the angel leans into the touch, his eyes closed.

There’s a municipal park up ahead, and Dean parks the Impala next to the closest field of grass he can find. Cas fumbles with the door latch, his fingers shaking too hard to get it open, and Dean circles around the front of the car to let him out. They end up slumped next to the car, Cas’s legs to weak to take him any further, and Dean unwilling to sacrifice an inch of proximity.

They’re silent for a while, and the perfect October afternoon unfolds around them while they wait for something that makes any kind of sense to say.

“You’re holding my hand,” Cas finally says, breaking the silence.

Dean can feel heat rising to his cheeks, but he tightens his fingers defensively all the same. “Yeah, well I don’t know any other way to keep you from disappearing on me again, so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Cas, it’s not… it’s not your fault, okay?”

“But you’re still upset with me.”

“I’m not, I just— _ fuck _ , Cas, this is so fucking unfair, after everything—I mean, why is this even happening like this?“

“Dean, what did you expect would happen when I Fell? There’s not a human version of me for me to become.”

“Anna was human, wasn’t she? Or near enough at least?”

“Anna was different. She was born as an infant, she had a body to grow up in and a whole childhood to adapt to humanity.” Cas laughs, and he almost sounds like his old self again. “I guess I’m more or less doing the same thing, I’m just a very large infant in adult clothes.”

“Cas…”

“I know, it’s not a perfect metaphor.” Cas leans his head against Dean’s shoulder, speaking more softly. “I’m sorry that it’s ending like this, Dean.”

“It’s not ending, okay?” Dean growls. He turns towards him, catching Cas’s eyes, and the haziness from before is gone. “You said Anna adapted, right? So your Grace is fading, and it’s leaving behind a blank slate, but it’s not gonna stay blank, you got that?” He lets go of Cas’s hand to trap his face between his palms, and for once the closeness and intimacy of the moment doesn’t freak him out, because it’s  _ Cas _ , and he needs to say this. “I’m not giving up on you, Cas. I promise.”

Cas blinks and swallows hard. “What about when it happens again? It’s going to happen again, Dean, my wings won’t fail until the last of my Grace does.”

“We’ll get Sam to rig you a GPS tracker,” Dean answers, settling back against the Impala, his arm slung over Cas’s shoulders. “He’ll go nuts over it, probably make it solar powered or something.”

“It would need to have back-up power in case I end up in a rainstorm or somewhere with heavy tree coverage. Or a cave.”

“Okay, Cas, batteries in case of emergency.”

“Thank you.” Cas shivers and pulls his coat closer around himself. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go home.”

“Yeah.”


End file.
